Major Arcana Imperii
by solitariusvirtus
Summary: The death of Elia Martell at the hands of common thieves sends the realm in turmoil. The spirited daughter of the Warden of the North somehow manages to land herself in the middle of it all. All her troubles suddenly vbecome more dangerous when she catches the eye of the heir apparent at a tourney.
1. Steeped in Blood

280 AL

A high pitched scream tore through the clearing, ringing along the Kingsroad. The distinctive female quality of it was alarming. Arthur momentarily gazed away from his opponent to look at the wheelhouse. He could not make out anything amiss, yet he knew that is had been the Dornish Princess that had screamed.

Dawn sliced through his enemy's arm, cutting through flesh and bone. The man's howl of pain was assurance enough that he would not be getting up. The Bull was yet occupied with his own opponent, so Arthur cut through another member of the Kingswood brotherhood and rushed to where the women were. He was, thankfully, not accosted a third time.

Peering inside he was treated to a view of one of Elia Martell's companions holding the Princess in her arms. Blood trickled the front of her gown. "What happened?" he questioned, trying to find the source of the wound.

"An arrow," came the shaky reply. "Her Grace was hit by an arrow." Arthur supposed it was the awkward way in which Elia was being held that hid the wound. "She broke it."

The Kingsguard gave a shallow nod. He could say nothing. The Princess was wounded and that was on them, on all of them who had had the duty to protect her. They'd failed. May the gods forgive them for the King was not likely to, nor was Rhaegar.

Pushing away all thoughts of his friend, Arthur turned his back o the scene of their failure and returned his attention to the raiders. Dawn glimmered in the pale sunlight and he charged another man. They were retreating though.

"The Lord Commander is down," Whent called out. And indeed, when Arthur looked he saw Commander Hightower kneeling in the tall grass, clutching his middle. Although armoured, it seemed that he'd been caught.

They were close to a small keep, he knew. If he could manage to get everyone there, then mayhap a maester could check the Princess' wound and the Lord Commander's. It was the best he could do. Oswell seemed to be thinking similar thoughts, for he was already striding to the wheelhouse to check the harness of the horses. Arthur reached Gerold Hightower and helped the man to his feel. He could not tell by looking at the wound how deep it was, but he guessed it would not be fatal if treated soon.

"Her Grace?" the Lord Commander demanded, his voice abrasive, thick with pain.

"Wounded," the younger answered. "I do not know how grave it is. An arrow."

The leader of the Kingsguard swore. And little wonder he did. Arrow wounds were a true danger. Even cleaned and bandaged they could cause a lot of trouble.

"Nearest keep?" Arthur was slightly startled. The Lord Commander did not repeat the question though.

"Not far. Mayhap you should ride in the wheelhouse." Riding a horse would likely put him in an early grave. The older knight nodded his head. Arthur helped him to the wheelhouse, keeping an arm around the other's waist to balance him. Despite the Bull being half a head taller and nearly twice as wide as him, Arthur managed to get the Lord Commander in the wheelhouse where the second d of Elia's companions began stripping him of armour.

The Princess gave a pained moan and then a louder cry when the female holding her pressed lightly against her.

"Where is the wound?" Mayhap her shoulder. But then Arthur realised that, nay, the wound was not there. The companions nodded towards the Princess' back and indeed Arthur could make out with much attention that there was a bit of wood protruding through the folds of Elia's dress.

Horror gripped him. The arrow had hit her spine. Yet she could still be saved. He'd known of men who had lived through such wounds. After all, she was young and her health had been considerably better.

A nod was all the answer he could produce. Stumbling backwards, Arthur closed the door to the wheelhouse. He looked towards Oswell. His sworn brother looked about as worried as Arthur was feeling.

"'Tis not good, my friend," Whent dared.

It was either that a cyst would form and she would be bedridden for the rest of her life or she would die. No one could tell either way. Even the best of maesters. One had to look for fever though. Mayhap infection. The more they delayed the bigger the risk of losing the Princess grew.

"We must away."

The keep was as close as Arthur remembered it being, and praised be the Seven, the lord welcomed them into his home. He offered to have some men searching along the Kingsroad for the bandits, in case any of them might still be lingering in those parts. Oswell elected to go with those men. All Arthur could do was accept.

In the meantime, he was to stand guard outside the Princess' chambers as the maester of the keep looked her over, and hopefully saved her.

But the ancient maester, once having conducted his consultation of the injured woman, shook his head; his stooped frame trembled like a leaf in a storm. "There is nothing I can do for Her Grace. Marrow has startled leaking into her blood. She may survive if she can weather through it, or she may not."

The lord of the house had already sent a raven by the time any of them could think to ask. Arthur could only hope it would be Rhaegar that came and not the King's men to relieve them all of their heads.

"I understand, maester," Arthur replied. "And the Lord Commander? What of him?"

"He fares better. The wound he sustained needed stitching, but baring an infection he should be right as rain within three moon's turns. It should be best that he get much rest."

At least Gerold Hightower would not die. Once more Arthur nodded. He thanked the maester and returned to his post by the door.

After a few moments the wooden structure creaked on its hinges and one of Elia's women poked her head out. "Has the message been sent?"

"Aye, my lady," the knight answered. She nodded in returns, her eyes never leaving him. Discomfiture snaked through him. Arthur cleared his throat softly. "How fares Her Grace?" He strained to make out anything, but it was quiet. Too quiet.

"Sleep has stolen her away. I suppose 'tis for the best. She would not stop weeping even after the maester fed her a quarter of a cup of milk of the poppy, poor thing." The woman pulled back after and shut the door softly.

Arthur was left alone with his thoughts. But it was not to last, for peace, even frail and tattered, is forever hounded by troubles.

Heavy, his failure cloaked him. The reminder of those failed duties slept though, and the knight would have to endure as best he could.


	2. The Storm Approaching

280 AL

The coins clinked together in the small pouch. Rhaegar threw it to Ser Barristan who deftly caught it midair. The Kingsguard did not seem pleased to leave him alone in the alley, but Rhaegar did not think himself in much danger. The street was narrow, flanked by two tall, wide structures which hid from the eyes of all what went on between them, but it was deserted and so it would remain for many hours more.

Ser Barristan gave an uneasy nod and went on his way as instructed. In the meantime, Rhaegar allowed himself to rest against the wall. A peculiar feeling had taken hi over for some time. It was a very strange mixture of unease and tension. Something like a premonition, one might even go as far as to say. The cause of it, the Prince could not name, but the effects were quite clear. The blasted feeling left him exhausted, and not only because of its intensity. A poor sleeper under the best of circumstances, Rhaegar found himself unable to catch even a few short hours of rest no matter that he took care of strenuous matters all day long. He just wished it would go away and leave him be.

Alas, good fortune had never been on his side. The Prince heaved a sigh and drove the thought away. Good fortune or ill, it was his duty to go on as he might. Upon this conclusion followed the knowledge that he ought to stop wandering the streets of King's Landing and see to refining the many plans he'd made since wedding Elia Martell. And he had to think about a way which excluded Dorne.

The trouble was that before he'd taken Elia to wife, Doran Martell had more or less promised to aid him in an eventual overthrowing of the King. Yet as soon as the vows had been said, something seemed to have changed. It was not that Doran had refused to aid, rather that if Rhaegar had the temerity to bring up their prior agreement, the Dornish Prince would find some way to avoid responsibility. That left the heir to the throne in a quandary.

His own father had started suspecting the plot. Whatever else could be said of Aerys Targaryen, the man could simply not be accused of simple-mindedness. Cruel and unkind, certainly, to some even evil; such were the words most usually used to describe the King. But stupidity was not among his many faults, much to his eldest son's displeasure. It was best to act with caution nonetheless, if he wished to retain his head on his shoulders. The Seven only knew what his fate would be if father ever learned of what Rhaegar planned.

As such, one of the Prince's biggest worries was the Spider. That man had spies everywhere. Ubiquitous, inescapable, Varys of the Free Cities was a pest that one encountered at every corner. He seemed devoted to the King, but who was to say what went on in that man's mind.

Further musing were put on hold as his companion emerged from the shadows, pouch no longer on his person. "We should make haste, Your Grace," the Kingsguard offered, agile gaze shifting to the sides. Rhaegar simply nodded in agreement and they begun making away from the place.

"Has the situation of the orphans improved?" He could not help but ask the question. It was rare that someone offered to take in children with no one else, and even rarer that they did so from the goodness of their heart. Or mayhap he ought to say unheard of. But Rhaegar knew of several such establishments and would, from time to time, give coin to them.

"If it has, then I've not seen it," came the gruff reply. It was not unexpected. There were many mouths to feed and few resources. "But those children have a roof over their head. It's more than others can boast of."

And that was the end of it. Rhaegar asked no more and Ser Selmy volunteered nothing else. It was for the best, the Prince assured himself, as he could not possibly solve all troubles of the realm. If anything, he seemed incapable of solving even his own.

The journey to the Red Keep was made in companionable silence, as both men seemed to be lost in their own thoughts. For his part, Rhaegar had returned his attention upon the problem of Doran and how he might convince his good-brother to aid him with more than just words. Mayhap when Elia returned he could persuade her.

The very notion exhausted him. His lady wife was many things, but interested in politics was not one of them. Certainly she wished for a more pronounced independence of her homeland, having not just once implied something of the nature, yet that was more her eldest brother's plan rather than hers. And while her attachment to Dorne was perfectly understandable, Elia seemed to think he ought to feel the same by virtue of being her husband.

Rhaegar might have negotiated more advantageous terms with her had she seemed at all inclined to aid him. But his lady wife was content to wait out his troubles and broach such subjects when she felt it was entirely safe. There were times when he wondered why his mother had made such arrangements for his marriage. Alas, facts were unchangeable.

He'd not entered the keep for long when one of Grand Maester Pycelle's creatures came running towards him. The young boy, not older than nine years perhaps, barely managed to stop himself before colliding with the Prince. Barristan Selmy threw the boy a harsh look, but the child paid him no mind, instead bowing to Rhaegar and spouting a torrent of words the prince could hardly make sense of.

Holding one hand up, Rhaegar silenced the child. "Slower, boy. I cannot understand a thing you say.'

The boy drew in one long breathe, offered an apology, then began anew. "A raven has come from the Princess, Your Grace. I was told to let Your Grace know as soon as possible." Which probably meant that the child had been looking for him. "The King wishes to have words, Your Grace."

Of that Rhaegar did not know what to think. At first he thought it might have been personal correspondence. Elia had been known to send him ravens when he was away, or if she herself was undertaking some journey. But if the King was involved then matters were much more confusing.

His father held little to no affection for his wife, for some reason Rhaegar could not fathom. As ladies of the court went, Elia was accomplished and mannered, at times even kind and gracious. Westeros had had worse candidates to queenship. Whatever the cause was, the King had been content to keep it to himself and Rhaegar had never questioned his father on that. After all, what did it matter what the man thought of his wife?

Knowing very well that he ought not to delay any further, Rhaegar made his way into Maegor's Holdfast and, upon reaching his father's solar, knocked gently on the door. He was allowed entrance and, to his great surprise, saw even his mother in the room.

Upon meeting his gaze, Rhaella's eyes filled with tears. That unsettled the Prince even further. In all the years in which he'd known her, his lady mother had but rarely cried and never before his father. Shedding tears had always been a private affair for her. Suspicion roused, he bowed to his father. "You have summoned me, Your Grace?"

"Indeed." There was something cruel about the look in his father's eyes as he spoke. "A raven has arrived, I've no doubt you have been informed." At his nod, the King held up between his fingers a piece of paper. "'Tis about that wife of yours."

Rhaegar would have reached out for the slip of paper but he did not trust his father not to be mocking if he so did. Instead, the Crown Prince waited patiently for the older man to continue. But it was Pycelle who gave the proper explanations. "Her Grace had encountered trouble on the road," the maester said.

Elia had never proven herself to be of a particularly sturdy constitution. If anything, she was rather sickly. That particular defect, they'd been assured by the bride's family, would pass as it stemmed from a recent head cold. Even if he'd not been inclined to believe such words, Rhaegar had been prepared to overlook the defect when it became apparent that Elia's suffering were not at all the result of a chill.

Yet it seemed to him that this could not possible be about a common cold. There was far too much fuss being made for that to be a reason. "What has happened to my lady wife, maester?" he questioned, his voice oddly detached, strange even to his own ears, as if it did not belong to him.

* * *

Lyanna rushed into the hall as if the very snarks and grumkins of the legends were chasing her. She did not even stop to look over her shoulder as she jumped over the threshold and barrelled past one of the servants who shrieked and promptly dropped her burden. Lyanna did not stop. She simply called out an apology and darted for the stairs.

Behind her came her younger brother, who was simultaneously yelling after her and brushing the light snow from his cloak; all with a charming scowl painted upon his features. Whatever quarrel was between them, the servants knew not to attempt any action. If they proved unruly their lord father would see to it that they were properly chastised.

However, any such attempt would have proven useless as the sole daughter of the family, having reached the top of the stairs, looked down at her brother and promptly declared herself the victor. "I told you I would win." Her triumphant look was in no manner quelled by the despondent expression Benjen Stark sported.

"You cheated," the younger one protested, crossing his arms over his chest. "If you hadn't tripped me I would have won."

"I didn't trip you, you crawler. That you've done all by yourself." Her denial was met with an indignant yell from the other sibling. Benjen hurried his pace, running up the stairs, and he was just about to make a grab for his sister when, unexpectedly, his foot slipped on the carved rock and he fell forward. his head smacking against the sharp edge.

Both children let out simultaneous cries, one of horror, the other of pain. Lyanna rushed to Benjen's side and tried to haul him up, but the inert body was proving to be more a trial to move than she would have thought.

"Gods be good, what has happened here?" the shrill voice of Lyarra Stark reached the ears of the conscious child. The mother bent to pick up the boy. "How many times have I told you not to race up the stairs?" But the cries of the distraught woman were utterly lost on Lyanna.

The young she-wolf could only watch as blood pooled from the wound her brother sustained.

She'd not meant for any of it to happen. It was simply that, since young, she and Benjen had competed at everything, and anything for that matter. And somehow they'd always made it out unscathed, or at least with little more than bruised knees.

It was quite simply unbelievable that Benjen should be so gravely injured.

Father, who had been attracted by the loud sounds in the hallway no doubt, happened upon the scene just as Lyarra cradled Benjen to her chest. He looked at Lyanna and, with a grimace, beckoned her over. "We must speak, you and I, daughter. This cannot continue on so." Lyanna fairly knew what her father wished to speak of with her, and, truthfully, had little desire of fearing. But Rickard Stark did not seem in the mood to spare her. "'Tis time you stopped acting a child."


	3. The Grey

Lyanna resisted the urge to scowl at her esteemed father. Undoubtedly, it had been wrong of her to challenge her brother so unthinkingly. Yet the blame did not lie solely with her. Benjen had wanted to compete with her. He always had and always would, whether they were knocking sticks out in the godswood or racing up slippery stairs.

"You are the older one. I expect you to know better," father was saying. Lyanna had the suspicious feeling that she'd heard the speech before. "He might have died. Your brother might have died for that folly of yours."

"It was just a game." Of course she'd not meant for Benjen to get hurt. "I am deeply sorry, father. I won't do it again."

"Such words I've heard from you before," Rickard Stark dismissed her promise. "Nay. Something else must be done, before 'tis too late. I've decided already."

That did not sound pleasant. Lyanna raked her mind for any possibility. She tried her best to find something which might make her father change his mind. But before that, she needed to know what exactly it was that he planned to do with her.

"Decided? Upon what?" In her heart doubt had nestled. Most of the time, she did not like her father's decisions. Left in the care of her lady mother for most of her life, Lyanna had been allowed to do as she would, from riding horses to running at rings. Mother had not encouraged her, as much as she'd turned a blind eye, so long as Lyanna saw to her other duties. Understand that such a deal was the best she could hope for, Lyanna had tried her best.

Yet as soon as she had turned two-and-ten, father had decided that, for some unfathomable reason which Lyanna blamed Maester Walys for planting into her father's mind, all his children needed to wed outside the North. Brandon had been quickly sacrificed to a Southron lady upon the altar of their father's ambition. Ned too had been found a few potential brides and then there was Lyanna. Given that Benjen was yet too young to figure in the grand plans of their father, Lyanna had found herself the centre of attention.

Brandon, may the gods keep him, was safely away, squiring as was Ned. They knew about father's decisions, but to them these were far-off matters, nothing to be concerned over. Lyanna, on the other hand, had no such luck. She might have been sent to foster with another house, but mother had never allowed it.

Instead, she had benefitted from the most attention any father could lavish upon a daughter that might bring fortune and connections to the house. Thus it was that her peace was promptly at an end when it was decided that she would make a fine bride for one Robert Baratheon, friend of her brother's Ned.

Lyanna did not protest marriage as an institution. She understood well enough that she would have to wed at some point. Yet she'd been hoping she might at least have a choice. However small. But nay, her father's heart was settled on Robert for some reason. He had even written to the young lord, proposing the match. Having dearly hoped that be refused, Lyanna was much prised and angered to find that Robert would be pleased enough to see it through, especially after he'd heard his friend speak of said sister. Lyanna could have throttled Ned. He thought he was doing her a good turn, no doubt, but she desired Robert with the same intensity she would the sweating sickness.

Of course, the whole matter was not yet settled, as they still needed to talk deeds and bridal prices. Not that Lyanna was in any way reassured. If all went well, the betrothal would be official and then she truly would have to go through with it. The unpleasantness was simply unspeakable.

Returning to the time of present, she suppressed a sigh and her eyes followed her father as he stood from his seat and walked towards her. "I am sending you to your aunt."

Hear heart fell into her stomach at those words. Aunt Branda, mother's sister, had married a Southron lord and for the past two decades she had stayed away from Winterfell. Presumably because the journey was much too long to make and thoroughly unrewarding. More likely, however, it was because she and mother had a spat a long time ago.

When Lyanna had been little more than a babe, her parents had travelled southwards to visit Branda Stark and her spouse. However, any pleasant notion had fled soon enough as the two sisters, Lyarra and Branda, had begun arguing over some nonsense about raising children. Suffice to say that they'd agreed never to see one another again and that had been that.

"I have written to her and expect she shall answer soon. In the meantime, you are remain at your lady mother's side at all times." Mayhap aunt Branda would not be so bad, Lyanna decided. Her father seemed bent to make her life difficult.

"I've already apologised and promised it would not happen again," she reminded her parent. She might have said more, but father's glare stopped her. In truth, Benjen's injury had been superficial. It hadn't even needed stitching. It was quite beyond Lyanna why her parents would be so adamant on punishing her.

Her father sighed, a long, tired sound. "One day you shall learn that words mean little without deed." He was determined, Lyanna understood. Then there was nothing much she could say to change his mind. "You cannot go through life expecting your mere word to be a law unto itself, daughter. Until you are of age, or wedded, you are under my care and as such bound to my will."

"I do not wish to go," she tried once more to dissuade him, though her voice trembled and she was quite certain it would not aid her.

Just as she had anticipated, Lord Stark's steely demeanour did not weaver. He shook his head. "Think of this a taste of what shall be expected of you when you are wed." Presumably to Robert.

Lyanna tried not to wince.

* * *

Benjen gave her a mournful look as Old Nan scooped a spoonful of porridge to his mouth. Lyanna could not take her eyes off of the bandage wrapped around his head though. She wanted, so very much, to unwrap it and look at his wound. Maester Walys, however, had dashed any such notion with a very strict prohibition. Apparently the wound needed to be well sheltered from even as much as a gust of wind.

Her brother forcibly swallowed his meal, wincing all the way. Old Nan had insisted that he was to eat only plain porridge. Honeyed porridge was bad enough, but the plain one was a punishment in and of itself. Especially when it had been prepared by the diligent hands of their minder.

"You should be glad I wasn't the one who made it for you," Lyanna told him once Nan left them on their own for a few moments. "I would have added peppers." She laughed at the stricken look on his face.

"I hate peppers," Benjen offered with a pout. He wouldn't touch one if his life depended on it. "They make me choke. And it's not possible to put peppers in porridge."

Unthinkable, mayhap; impossible, Lyanna rather thought that was not the case. "Should I try then?"

Shaking his head empathically Benjen stuck his tongue out at her. "You're just mad because father punished you." And indeed she was. Not so much for the punishment, as for being sent away to the other end of the realm, or very near so in any case.

"It might be that I am." From the sleeve of her dress she pulled out a few dried dates. "I've brought you these. To chase away the taste of porridge." Benjen held his hand out for the gift.

"I could ask father not to send you away" he said a moment later, before shoving one of the dates into his mouth and chewing noisily, like children sometimes did. "Amberly is far away. I couldn't come and visit whenever I wanted to. I don't want you to go so far away anyway."

Lyanna listened without interrupting. She knew well enough that Benjen would no succeed in convincing father to allow her to remain in Winterfell. He could spend a hundred days crying in front of father and the man would not change his mind. He was stubborn. Too stubborn by half.

"Eat you dates, Ben," she replied when he was finally done exposing his brilliant plan to her. Not one to disregard authority, her brother set upon another date, ripping it apart between small, sharp teeth. "Hurry, before Nan returns."

Old Nan's eyes might not be as good as they once were, but she could still make out all the mischief the Stark siblings got up to.

Before long, the returned, bringing with her warm milk and a story about flesh-eating monsters. Lyanna climbed upon the bed, resting over the furs. She barely even acknowledged Benjen grabbing onto her hand. Her younger brother trembled even before any sort of horrors were mentioned.

More to needle him than anything else, Lyanna leaned closer to him and whispered, "They come out at night, you know? I've seen one myself. If you ask nicely I'll sent it your way."


	4. The Calm

Lord Morrigen and his lady wife dispensed of a brief greeting to the Crown Prince. Rhaegar himself managed a polite reply, but he was not much in the mood for conversation. Whent and Dayne lingered a bit behind, but by no means were they trying to hide. All the better. Rhaegar did not know how he would have reacted to such a sight.

The men that had joined him were dismounting as well, as servants came to take the horses away and lead them into the main hall where, presumably, they were to be served food and drink after their hard road. Rhaegar brushed such thoughts away, concentrating on what was being said to him.

"Her Grace is yet under the influence of our good maester's draughts," Lord Morrigen let him know. The man presented nothing out of ordinary. In the later part of his life, he sported a head of thinning grey hair, matted to his scalp. Of middling height, he made just past Rhaegar's shoulder, but his frame was sturdy, some would go as far as to claim he was thick. The most striking thing about him was not even his hook nose, but his very bright green eyes, visible from under a pair of busy brows that had not yet lost their dark colour.

His lady wife by contrast was a pale, tiny thing that clutched onto her husband's arm withy surprising strength. In the lines of her face, Rhaegar could read worry. She gazed at the world through a pair of dark blue eyes. Her limp blonde hair fell about her shoulders in lifeless waves. It took Rhaegar a moment to realise that she was likely mourning. Her bloodless lips were pressed tightly together as if she were trying to keep a secret away from the rest of the realm. And she might as well have been.

Looking away from the woman, Rhaegar 's eyes settled upon the lord of the keep. "I should like to speak to the maester if at all possible." There was still very much he did not know, after all.

Lord Morrigen gave a shallow nod and prying away from his lady's hold he send her on her way with an assurance that all would be well. "Forgive my lady, Your Grace. It has not been long since we've lost our oldest son. She still mourns him."

A nod of his own was the first answer. "I am sorry for your loss." Meaningless words, of course. Rhaegar had not known their oldest son and he could no more ease their pain than they could change the fact that they'd lost a son.

"We were much surprised and rather horrified at the daring of those who attacked the Princess," Lord Morrigen changed the subject after a moment f silence.

Grateful, Rhaegar took the opportunity to try making sense of what had happened. "Have any of the culprits been apprehended."

With a sigh, the other man shook his head. "We searched for them, but, unfortunately, they managed to escape us. Apologies, Your Grace."

"There is nothing for it," the Prince replied. It could hardly be helped in any case. The best thing for it would be to gain as much knowledge as he could from the incident.

Which it was very likely that he would, given that the maester of the keep was coming towards them. He bowed before his lord and his Prince. "Your Grace is arrived, I see. We feared the raven had been shot down."

"While I cannot account for the delay in the reply offered, I was on the road as soon as the message reached me. Now, my good maester, I should like to hear about my wife." With a small nod to the lord began walking away with the frail old man that had just arrived.

"What news I have is not good I fear," the maester began. His thin fingers had curled around his chain, tugging gently on the metal. "Her Grace had sustained an arrow wound. Fortunately, we have managed to keep her alive until this point, but, Your Grace, she is fading rapidly."

"The nature of this wound," Rhaegar prompted. It was rather peculiar how me managed to keep his calm. He supposed most found it strange too, for the maester seemed startled.

"Aye; its nature. Her Grace's spine has been severely damaged. We thought that we might still save her, even if she would have been bedridden for life." There the man stopped and drew in a long, shuddering breath. "Alas, the gods were not that kind. The marrow has leaked into the bloodstream. Her Grace is dying."

His wife was dying. Rhaegar hardly knew what to say. "Is there truly nothing that could be done? Mayhap in King's Landing," he trailed off. Of course there was nothing. Rhaegar had heard of such wounds. Had the gods meant for her to live, she would have been on the mend.

"Aside from that, Your Grace," the man continued, "the wound has begun to fester despite our best effort. Nothing seems to cleanse it." And that could be anything truly. A splinter left behind when the arrow had been pulled out, a speck of dust or mere chance.

"I shall see my lady wife now." He thought the maester might protest, but the man merely looked to the ground and stopped walking. Rhaegar waited for an answer to what had been a command rather than a request.

"If Your Grace insists, then of course. But I must offer warning. The Princess is unlikely to have much strength left." By which the man no doubt meant that Elia was nothing as her husband would remember her.

He might well be correct in his assumptions. He and Elia had not been long wedded one to the other. Yet even so, the general consensus was that they got on well. Which they did without doubt. There was little in the way of passion from him and his lady wife had scrupulously kept from demanding his heart. The truth of it was that Rhaegar had needed a bride and Elia Martell had wanted to wed. It was no more and no less than that. That they found each other tolerable was a kind enough intervention of the gods. And now he stood to lose it all.

He gave no answer to the maester's words, but turned on his heel. He had taken no more than three steps when Dayne and Whent approached him. He'd known they would wish to speak to him and for one moment Rhaegar was tempted to give them leave, but in the end he did not.

"Not now," he said to the two Kingsguards. "After." The assurance seemed to be enough for them. The two exchanged a look before bowing their assent and allowing their Prince to step past them towards the keep. He could hear them walking behind him though; the heavy armour pieces scraping gently one against the other.

Since one of the two was surely aware which chamber was the one that held his lady wife, Rhaegar had no issue with their following him. If anything it made matters easier. Afterwards, he was sure to visit with the Lord Commander as well, to see how he fared.

The trio entered the cavernous space together, making their way through winding corridors, climbing steep stairs and taking care to avoid most anyone. The last thing Rhaegar wished was for undue attention to be heaped upon them.


End file.
